


unmade

by truehumandisaster



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, X-Men (Movies), X-Men - All Media Types, X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) - Fandom
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe, Gen, Hope, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-24
Updated: 2016-12-07
Packaged: 2018-03-16 21:42:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 11,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3503792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/truehumandisaster/pseuds/truehumandisaster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It takes Erik Lehnsherr two months to find Charles Xavier in the pits of a cell no sane man would go to. A lot can change in two months -- the hope of one man can be destroyed, and the hope of another can spark to life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. the underworld

Charles had experienced pain before. From the physical pain of having to fight against his fellow mutants to the emotional pain of having the two most important individuals in his life embrace the darkness within themselves, he believed he coped with what most men should never have to experience. He was wrong to think that was the end of his pain, because through it all, he remained Charles Xavier at the base -- a distinction he never considered important. There was a home he could return to and a purpose he could cling onto. In the future, he could find hope, and he had learned long ago that without hope, the difference between himself and those he fought against broke down.

Now, he knew what it was to lose all sense of self and stare into the tired eyes of Death. He knew what it was to walk on the edge of nothingness, knowing and wishing he would fall over just to end the threat of insanity tearing at his mind. He finally knew what it was to be trapped inside his own thoughts, unable to find comfort in others. 

He knew what it was to be unmade. He had been ripped apart and shoved back together, days bleeding together to form the threat of infinity. Most days he could not recall his own name, and when he did, it was accompanied with such a blinding flash of pain, he shied away from it. In the deep pits of the cell, darkness became his friend. In the night, he knew his loneliness would keep him alive. 

Blood caked his face, and it was funny that, even then, it should bother him. The faint _tick, tick, tick_ of the clock overhead counted down the seconds until the men in the suits would return, clipboard in hands and new instruments to explore the inner workings of his ability, ~~his curse~~. Their voices no longer made sense, and Charles had long since learned not to focus too hard on them. Ignorance had also become his friend. 

The men in the suits brought with them nothing but agony, and it was an agony that sent him outside his own body, floating on the cusp of death and life. Before didn’t exist; _he_ didn’t exist. For weeks, it had been memories of Raven’s sly smile and the rare sound of Erik’s laughter that had carried him through, but neither came for him.

Alone, Charles wept.

The cell smelled of death when the door finally creaked open, the darkness threatening to suffocate all who entered. He hung his head in defeat, but the cuts decorating his skin felt as if they were already being peeled open, exposed for those entering. No longer did his heart race forward at the sound; his senses had dulled as much as his thoughts. The steps came forward, and a blinding light filled the room. The shriek that left his lips was utterly alien to his ears, and he shoved himself further into the corner of the small space. 

"Charles?" 

Like a frightened animal, the young man flinched away from the sound. Was this some new, cruel trick? He covered his ears with his hands, chains dangling from them as delicately as if they were no more than silver bracelets. The voice reached past it all, and it terrified him in completely new ways how sweet the voice sounded. It seemed almost a sin to hear it speak. If there was any secret so worth killing over, it was the secret that that voice held power. The tortures could not erase the vague sense of familiarity of it, but he found himself shaking his head, vehemently denying its existence. Pain was all he knew now.

"Who?" His voice was little more than a croak, parched lips cracking as they formed the word.

"Charles."

The man connected to the voice stepped forward, and Charles finally opened his eyes. He squinted against the harsh light, able to see little more than the rough outline of a face that tugged at his broken thoughts. The silhouette alone threatened to begin piecing him back together, but Charles didn't want to be fixed. He wanted to be left alone in the warm embrace of darkness and allow the numbness to wash him over. He wanted to be free.

"Please... Please don't hurt me. Please stop calling me that. Please, _I don't know who I am_."

Was that a sigh he heard? The man waved his hand, and Charles flinched at the motion, expecting the attack he had been waiting for to finally come. Instead, the chains at his wrists and feet tore open. Freedom had been given to him, and his vision blurred at the impossibility of it all.

"I'm taking you home, old friend."


	2. the fickleness of love

Home, Charles would remember, was a large mansion, teeming with life and overfilling with the sweet optimism that accompanied youth. The van raced along the highway, the outside world passing in a streak of colors, and he closed his eyes, trying to recall a clearer image than the vague brick one that filled his mind. The only thing he knew was that his home had once meant loneliness, but it was now possessed by a force far greater.

"How long have I -- ?" His voice cracked at the question. 

"Long enough." 

He wished the tone of the man who had rescued him wasn't so curt; he wished he could remember his name beyond this simultaneous feeling of relief and hurt that filled his chest at the sight of him. In many ways, the mutant reminded Charles of the safety of darkness in the cells. It was neither welcoming nor dismissive; it simply existed to oppose the blinding brightness of light. 

Abruptly, an echo of a long away memory: 

_"Peace was never an option," the man retorted, as if it was a line he had practiced time and time again. Perhaps it was. Perhaps it had become his mantra in the same way hope had become Charles's. Each man had built a shield around himself -- one of anger and one of faith -- and it was moments such as these, when words of pain slipped from the mutant's mouth as if they were as heavy as bricks dropped into an ocean, that Charles became afraid of which one would win out._

_Would the man or the power win? Rage or serenity?_

_The mutants that followed him looked towards their leader to give purpose to the same anger that clung to their hearts. They stripped him of his identity, forging him into the very thing Charles so feared. If peace was not an option, what was he to do? How could he show the man -- no, not the man..._

_Magneto._

_Oh god, what if he was right?_

Charles buried his face into his hands, trying to make himself as small as he possibly could. _Magneto_ \-- the master of the same metals forged in the hearts of dying stars so long ago. _Magneto_ \-- murderer of humans and mutants alike. _Magneto_ \-- his hope robbed, still searching out the mutant he viewed as the weaker of the two. Yet, confused and muddled as Charles's thoughts were, he knew that was not his true identity. He was someone greater, someone worthy or praise, although the name continued to elude him, teasing gently as his cheeks burned in shame. 

"My students..." 

For the first time since the cell, Magneto touched him, resting his hand on Charles's shoulder in the smallest form of comfort he could manage. His perception of time remained skewed slightly from the darkness of the cell, but had two months irrevocably damaged all he had achieved? He quivered silently, biting his lip in an effort to halt the blurring in his eyes. _A fool's dream_ , he recalled Magneto once telling him, but it had been a dream they had both shared, however temporarily. 

"A lot has changed, Charles." 

"We've got trouble." For the first time, Charles noticed the driver of the van. She had been carefully concealed beyond the barrier that separated the back from the front of the vehicle, but right away, he could picture her expression as she spoke through gritted teeth. Once upon a time, he had likened her to a bird, cawing angrily until someone paid attention to it. 

Oh, how he had missed his little bird. 

Before he could ponder any further, the van skidded to a halt, tipping over precariously before stopping. The ground seemed to be trembling around them, and the faintest echo of sirens could be heard in the distance. His breathing picked up immediately, for it had been those very sounds, this very same fear, that had accompanied his original imprisonment. 

There had been two others with him then too. How had he forgotten them? One with the name of a season -- Winters? Summers? -- and the other with hair as bright red as the flames of hell. 

"They came in metal trucks," Magneto mused out loud, and in that instance, Charles knew he would prefer the name _Magneto_. He stood to his feet, having to crouch slightly in the van, and with a flick of his wrist, the back of the vehicle flew open. "Humans... They never learn, do they?" 

"Make them pay."

The coldness in the driver's voice shocked him, and he felt as if he should do something. It took him what felt like ages to stand to his feet as well, and his legs shook under the sudden exertion. There was such wild concern in Magneto's eyes, and his head felt so faint, he was thankful when the man slid an arm around his waist in an effort to steady him. 

"Don't... They're just..." 

He couldn't form the words. 

"They're just men following orders?" The coldness was contagious, creeping into the other man's voice as well, but it was not directed at Charles. He gazed to the oncoming trucks outside, and he lowered Charles back to the floor of the van. "Tell me you don't want them to die, and I'll spare every one of them." 

The protest caught in Charles's throat for the briefest of instances. He could still feel the ghosts of the instruments they had used, jabbing past the protective shell of his skull into his brain, slicing pieces of him away. _For science..._ They had preached, cruel faces expressionless and indifferent to his pain. _This time won't hurt..._ But it had always hurt. Once he was unmade, could he be remade? 

The hesitation was the only consent Magneto needed. 

He did not simply jump out of the vehicle; he glided out, feet hardly daring to brush the ground. Trucks surrounded them, and helicopters blared loudly overhead, but Charles would swear that Magneto only smiled. 

The moment before their world burst into flames, there was a brief pause of silence. 

"Don't kill them. Be better than them," he whispered, knowing Magneto could hear. 

It didn't matter. 

The helicopters slammed into each other, the sound of their blades chopping through metal ricocheting in the air. Every vehicle flew back fifty yards, and a cloud of dust covered the scene like a blanket. Only three gunshots went off before the screams of the men joined in the chaos, their guns hijacked and turned on them with one unison explosion of bullets, and the smell of blood and gas danced together in some sick parody of a ballet. It was over in less than five minutes.

Everywhere around them, men lay broken and dying.

Charles felt them all. The months had made his power raw and sensitive, and he covered his ears, trying to hear anything besides the last thoughts and desires of the men who had hurt him. "It's a dream. It's a dream. It's a dream," he repeated, knowing it wasn't true but desperate to believe it nonetheless.

Magneto stepped back into the van, Raven Darkholme in the shape of one of the dead guards jumping into the driver's seat once more. His little bird had grown talons in his absence, and she flicked a droplet of blood from her cheek as if it was no more than a bead of sweat. Magneto averted his eyes from both of them, motioning for Raven to drive with another wave of his hand.

"It's not a dream, Charles. This is today's reality. We're at war." Despite the nature of the words, there was a softness present in them he hadn't heard. Magneto had always deemed the care of others to be a weakness; there were larger goals and bigger concerns than the fickleness of love, but he lessened the slap of the words by allowing a small bit of that weakness to bleed through.

That wasn't Magneto's doing; that was Erik. Erik Lehnsherr. The name was as sweet as the fruit promised to Eve, and he kept his new knowledge to himself, greedy and protective of it. 

Gradually, he vowed he would remember everything.


	3. the dialogue of the broken

Charles was not sure which would have been worse: coming back to find the vines having overtaken his home or to find that nothing had changed at all. It would either be a house empty or a house that moved on, and as the van pulled to a stop at the front of the house, he discovered that it was neither fully disregarded nor fully looked after. Trees were ripe with leaves, and the smell of pollen hung heavily in the air. The well worn paths leading up to the steps of the mansion were covered with scattered remains of plants from the autumn time, but it was the silence that stuck out the most.

He remembered laughter ringing, following the squeals of children attempting their new found powers. He remembered the muttered curses of teachers attempting to control them, although they remembered the joys and terrors of those days well enough. Most of all, he remembered the stark contrast to his days spent here as a child. Whereas once upon a time, he had ghosted through the hallways like some forgotten souvenir picked up by his parents years prior, the days when children ran around made it seem less empty and less sad. 

Had it really only been a few months? 

Erik kept a protective hand on the small of Charles's back, and even Raven, so quiet and cold on the drive back, continued to shoot him occasional glances, as if he was a porcelain doll held together by duct tape. An alabaster mask for a porcelain man; how fitting. 

The door of the mansion flew open, and a young man came darting outside to the courtyard. Charles stared at the ecstatic face blankly for a long moment, and as if sensing his uncertainty, Erik held up a hand to stop the man in his path.

"Go get him some water. They were practically starving him in there." 

There was no room for argument, but the man rose his voice anyways, eyes never roving far from Charles. "Put the professor inside and then get out of here, Erik. You've done enough, and he doesn't -- "

"Hank," Charles croaked, relief immediately accompanying the remembrance of the name. It appeared voices brought him back far more than faces, but he should have known what a fickle thing memories were. He had manipulated and waded through his fair share of them. Why, then, did he feel such mixed dread and elation at the gaining of a few of his own? The tables had turned, and the smallest, faintest whisper of guilt washed over him, a whisper which insisted he deserved his sufferings. "Listen to Erik. He saved my life." 

"Saved your life?" The anger came on in a brutal wave, robbing Charles of breath and strength. "That bastard -- " 

"Shut the hell up, McCoy," Raven returned loudly, silencing Hank with a look. "You have no idea what it's like out there. Even with Charles gone, even with the students fleeing, you've remained holed up in your little nest, content to complain and not do a damn thing. Move out of the way, Hank. We're going inside." 

Charles rubbed his temple slightly, unable to focus on their bickering. _Children..._ One too eager for war; the other too negligent when it came to such matters. With Erik's help, he moved past them and into his home, leaving their thoughts behind him. There was only room in his head for one voice, and even that was proving too loud and too painful. 

_"Why?"  
"Because of what you are. Because of the things you can do. Your voice holds power, Mr. Xavier." _

In the dank, cold area of his cell, he had crafted a safe world within himself, free from the pain of needles and the fear of what would happen should he succumb to it. In his world, he was mute -- no voice, no thoughts, no feelings. He existed as a boy again for the pure, innocent purpose of existence itself. _Perhaps when I awaken_ , he remembered thinking, _there will be no war, no inequality, and little ignorance. Perhaps this world is true and the other is false. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps._

Yet, even in his beautiful other world, shadows had crept closer in the form of another little boy. This little boy wore gloves far too big for his hands and a coat patched up so frequently that it was difficult to tell what it's original color had been. He talked to Charles in a language he could not comprehend, and even as he tried to explain that very fact, the boy had merely become more frantic. He took off his gloves and showed Charles the blood on his hands, thick brow furrowing in anger and panic.

Charles could see the same concentrated fury on Erik's face. It was in the way his own brows furrowed together as he continuously glanced at Charles. It was in the way he clutched his fists. It was in his very movements, rigid yet graceful, as if he was afraid of what should happen if he stepped out of a perfectly formed line. In his safe place, the boy had only spoken one sentence that stuck out. 

"Erik..." He cleared his throat, settling gently onto the couch of the nearest room. "What does _'sh'ma yisro-ayl, adonoy elo-haynu, adonoy echod'_ mean?" The words sounded clumsy leaving his lips, but the other man stiffened noticeably as he stood beside Charles. They held as much power as the discovery of Erik's name had held for Charles. 

"It's a prayer for the dying." 

Erik sat down hard on the couch beside Charles, for the first time showing the emotion he had deflected for so long. He was a firm believer that emotions were the downfall of mankind. They tore at thoughts and broke down strength of will until all that remained was the hallowed shell of those who had experienced far too much. He had spent months directing them inward, making it feel as if his skeleton was lined with bruises from the effort. There was something terrifying present in those bruises, something Charles did not want to see but that neither of them could fully escape.

He placed his hand gently on Erik's. 

"We searched for you for months, Charles," Erik continued. Were those tears prickling his eyes? Erik moved his free hand and brushed the tips of his fingers over Charles's bruised cheek, expression flickering with pain. Charles had always wanted to show him there was good in the world, good in himself, but he could see the moment Erik's path shifted farther away from that realization. He would only ever see the bruises. Abruptly, Erik took his hands back, and as quickly as the tears had appeared, they were brushed aside. There was always the man and the mask, Magneto and Erik, and there would never be peace between the two. He stood up and stared down at Charles, committing the dips and curves of his face to memory. Charles could feel the sense of an impending end, and he cringed away from it. "Hank was right. I shouldn't be here. It's my fault you were thrown in that pin, Charles. I told them your location." 

It was then Charles realized there was still some part left of him to break.


	4. supernova

Charles had always been adamant about two things in life: no one was ever fully past the point of return, and neither him nor his students were soldiers. However, laying in bed that night, he couldn't help but feel as a soldier did when coming home from war. The softness of the bed felt as if he was being smothered in it, and every faint sound caused him to jerk upward, as if he had not really escaped -- as if the dark spirits of those who had locked him away were still haunting his every step. The battle still raged, and like it or not, there _was_ a battle now. 

Was Erik among those in the shadows? 

His first night home was cold and interrupted, and only a few bedrooms over, he could hear Raven pacing the length of her room, hiding her worry beneath a layer of rage. Oh, how like Erik she had become. He knew that she remained where Erik had not in the hopes that those who he had escaped from would come after him once more. He could taste the blood lust on her tongue, and he almost wished his too-soft bed would finish the job and suffocate him simply so he didn't have to deal with the lingering tang. 

Almost out of habit, his thoughts reached out, searching for the closed off mind of the man he had foolishly trusted. There was nothing but the emptiness of night, but for whether that meant Erik had truly left or just slipped on his helmet, Charles wasn't sure. All he knew was that, in a house filled with several others, he was empty. 

He wanted purpose; he wanted to forget. 

Long after even the moon had gone down in the sky, he stumbled out of bed, unable to accept the double edged sword of rest. He knew what he was going for before he made it a few feet. His closet had not remained undisturbed during his time away, but on the top shelf, beneath a half-tossed aside blanket, there remained his chest set. 

Each piece was made out of metal, and it was clearly formed in a way no blacksmith would be able to shape, almost as if the metal had naturally twisted and bent to such figurines. The set was dusty, but Charles brought it down with the utmost care, taking his time to wipe down each piece before he put them in their proper places among the board. His loneliness had always been his greatest downfall. He walked in the minds of others so often that he could no longer differentiate between them. Weren't people just pawns, after all, to be used for the greater good of equality -- or had he merely been walking in the mind of his friend for too long? 

" _Erik,_ " he called out, over distance and through the pain of betrayal, still heavy as a curtain around him. "I'll take black this time. Meet me in ten minutes." 

Charles could only hope the man would hear.

 

Progress required sacrifice. Progress required demand. Progress required threats. Oppressors would not give up their privilege; the oppressed had to take it, no matter the villains they were painted to be later on. Erik Lehnsherr would forgive himself, so long as the end product actually came to fruition. He would never fully be cleansed of his sins, but he would ensure his race would flourish for it.

His thoughts always held a unique tint to them, brighter and more blazing than any other. He was the pulsing, dying remnants of a massive star, ready to tear itself apart in a final glimpse of glory. For the first time in many years, Charles felt it all -- the confusion over his guilt and the certainty despite it all -- for a brief moment before it vanished with a knock sounding at his door.

When Charles opened it, he was met with Magneto, helmet fastened securely and expression guarded with stone. 

"I assumed this was some ploy to get me here. If you want to enact your revenge, I will warn you that I refuse to -- " His eye caught the gleaming silver chess set waiting for them, if only they each reached out and grabbed the opportunity. He walked past Charles, grabbing hold of one of the small kings. "You're a fool, Charles. You should kill me where I stand."

Charles pursed his lips, clasping his hands tightly behind his back. "I'm furious." He knew it would be a different sort of fury than anything he had experienced. This built until it could build no longer, and one day, he knew it would overfill from his very pores. "I can't think of that. I can't think of what happened. I can't think of sleep. All I know is this..." With a flourish of his hand, he motioned to the game. "This is something I need."

_You are something I need. Oh, Erik, what have you done?_

He could tell that Erik wanted to say more. For Christ's sake, he wanted to say more too, but he couldn't. Not now. He would leave his problems until the morning light shined its revealing glare onto them. Until then...

"Your move." 

A lifetime ago, Erik had said those very words, and Charles's heart had sped up, the _bum, bum, bum_ racing to pace themselves with the other man's. A game of chess meant very little to the ordinary folks of the world, but every move gave a glimpse into a mind he had only been allowed to see once. Every move pulled them closer together. Each man had only wanted to control their fates, and every move allowed them to do just that. 

There was far more than pride at stake here; they played for their very souls.

For a supernova would never just destroy itself; the dying star would take the worlds around with it. If Erik was the dying gasp of a sun, Charles was locked in its orbit, unable to do a damn thing other than burn. 

The words welled up on his lips, threatening to spill over unless he swallowed them. Charles had lost their game the first time they set up a chessboard -- the first time Erik had smiled that subtle grin so unique to him and whispered " _your move_ " beneath his breath. 

Erik had betrayed him, but Charles had done something far worse. He'd fallen in love. 

He truly was the fool.

"E2 to E4." The game was on.


	5. dreams of the graceless

Nightmares were a strange thing. Even if they were unrealistic to the point that one wakes up with the knowledge they were fake, they clung to the inner eyelids as if they were shadows to the brightness of a mind. It was not the images themselves that frightened Charles; it was the blurring between reality and dream and the uncertainty of what was real and what was false. 

He rarely remembered his nightmares. They were comprised of nothing more than heavy breathing and long needles, too bright faces and masks shielding their mouths, and slurred words and the scent of blood. He remembered the feeling they gave him, however. A dying animal seeks out solitude as it wastes away, and that was something Charles had never understood before his nightmares. They made him feel like shattering glass, doomed to forever splinter. 

_"Don't let him die."  
"I don't care if he dies, so long as we have what we need. Have you tried the bone marrow?"_

His nightmares forced him to glimpse the pain he had suffered.

For as brilliant as the human mind can be, it can be tricked with surprising ease. Everyone has been subjected to illusions before, but nightmares were the masters of such things. Beads of sweat lined his forehead, and he curled into a ball, trying to disappear in the smallness his body formed. Waking up was never an easy task when the darkness gripped him, but he could not give up, no matter how much he longed to do such a thing.

The weight of a world rested on his shoulders. 

His blankets were tangled around his legs when he finally sat up, shivering slightly from the sheen of sweat now coating him. In the corner of the room, Erik slept soundly, resting his head against the board they had moved their chess pieces against mere hours previous. He had won their game, refusing to give Charles the victory even as the man gave up on strategy. It was a relief; it felt real, unlike so many other things he had dragged himself through.

Erik stirred slightly, and the smallest hint of a smile appeared on Charles's face in answer. He did not remember falling asleep, nor did he recall moving to his bed. In hushed whispers and pointed stares, they had been discussing each of their organizations. Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters and the subsequent formation of the X-Men would push onward, he insisted, for they had little other choice. They would rise above this, above their leader's temporary downfall, and come together in the trying times they would certainly face.

The Brotherhood promised nothing but vengeance.

In the late hours of the night, Charles had deciphered three important things.

1) Whatever Erik had been doing, the man believed it to be for the greater good. There was rarely a thing he did that was not moving his grand scheme forward. Charles couldn't help but feel the prickle of doubt over his own rescue because of it. Had Erik rescued him out of want or need?

2) After he was taken, Scott Summers and Jean Grey -- specific names he would recall only after asking Erik about his students -- had attempted to fight, but a band of mutants dragged them away from the scene. They were held with the rest of the Brotherhood until they managed to escape in an attempt to rescue Charles. Hank returned them to the school, but the pair often took trips away from the mansion in an effort to distance themselves from its memories. They were said to be returning soon, two of the three of the last of his remaining students.

3) This was not the end. Shady organizations and threats to mutants were a fixed point. As much as Charles wished he could argue else wise, it was today's reality. Whomever had deemed it necessary to experiment on the telepath would not be satisfied with a half-finished experiment and an escaped mutant. 

Charles ran a hand through his unkempt hair, eyes drifting lazily over Erik's form. That absurd helmet of his cast dark shadows on his face, and for a moment, Charles contemplated tugging it off. There was nothing quite so revealing as nightmares, and he couldn't help but wonder what it was the other man dreamed of. 

He was never given the opportunity of seeing for himself. Erik woke with a start, as prepared for a fight as any groggy man had a right to be. His own gaze traveled quickly around the room, and Charles could almost see his thoughts forming patterns. Without the gift of his ability, Charles was near helpless trying to decipher the thoughts of others, but he knew none as well as he knew Erik. 

"I hadn't meant to -- " 

Charles held up his hand to silence him. He didn't want to hear the end of that statement. _I hadn't meant to stay here. I hadn't meant to betray you. I hadn't meant to save you at all._

"Hank is fixing breakfast in the kitchen if you'd like some," Charles returned instead.

"That's far too domesticate for me." Erik hesitated, rising fully to his feet. "Don't you want to know _why_? You once told me that a wise man forgives, but this is not wisdom. This is folly. I tell you I betrayed you, and you invite me to breakfast?" He seemed to find a spark of anger in himself as he said the words, gathering himself in a way that was always a precursor to a fight. "Are you so weak that you cannot fight with one who threatens not only you, but the lives of your students? Tell me where the wisdom of that is, old friend."

If truth be told, Charles had expected the words. After all, one could not simply return to a place that hadn't changed when so much had altered within oneself. There was a reason people returning from nightmares found no comfort in the brightness of day and a reason why he had not pressed the other mutant. Charles was a man who put together the pieces of a puzzle with ease, but this was one puzzle with fractured and constantly changing pieces. They did not fit, and sense could not be made from them. 

He paused for a long moment, and there seemed to be a silent argument occurring between the two men. Not all wars happened with the clanging of weapons and the exertion of muscles; half of them took place in the pause between breaths. "What did they threaten you with?" It was the only thing that seemed to fit with the narrative of betrayal. There was always a reason, correct? Charles desperately sought his out.

Erik tilted his chin upward, a depth of uncertainty flickering in his eyes. Assuming he would not answer, Charles stood up as well and put on his slippers, doing his best to ignore the stare of the man lingering on his skin. 

"Do you consider me a coward?" The voice cut through the silence.

"In some regards," Charles returned coolly. "You are afraid of hope, afraid of peace, and afraid of love. You are more than capable of all of those things, but to embrace them requires a certain courage. You are brave, you are magnificent in your abilities, and you are clever beyond compare. You are a good man, Erik -- make no mistake about that -- but you have ample opportunity to become a _great_ man. I ask again: what did they threaten you with?" 

It seemed to be the answer Erik was looking for. He glanced away, whether in shame or deliberation, Charles couldn't be certain. "It was either the Brotherhood or the X-Men. I made the decision with ease." 

It was a narratively unsatisfying response. Charles wanted there to be torment, hesitation, or perhaps some promise that he was not as disposable as he believed himself to be. He received something far colder -- the truth. 

"Then why come for me at all?" 

Charles had learned to pick up subtle clues from Erik throughout their years together. His most telling, and least known, was that he always blinked twice before relaying a lie. So when his eyes closed twice in rapid succession, Charles attempted to hear beneath the words he would say. 

"I could not find a better chess partner." 

_Our fates are intertwined by red string; even if I could cut it, I would not do such a thing._

 

What seemed to be in a place across the world, phone calls were being made. To take life was easy when all one had to do was breathe a word into the receiver of a telephone. The decision was deliberated between the men and women in charge of the organization, but a general consensus was reached. Progress would always require experimentation, but more than that, progress was built on the back of sacrifice.

The time for experimenting was over; the time for sacrifice had begun.


	6. every war is a civil war

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo, okay, I never post notes with these chapters, so this is a little strange. Just a quick update, however! I changed the first line in the story, because I realized I had it so that Charles had been shot as what happened in the end of First Class, but that makes no sense in regards to this story, since he's, ya know, walking around. (Oops @ Kat) 
> 
> If you want more updates and graphics for these frick fracking dumb babs of mine, follow me at whereamir.tumblr.com, because shameless self promotion is the basis of America!

It would take four weeks for them to come for Charles once more. Life had ticked onward, as life tends to do, and like ember glowing faintly in a dying fire, hope had once more sparked dully in the man. Perhaps that was the worst part of their return; they allowed enough time to pass for Charles to believe that maybe he could be rid of the source of his pain altogether.

A few students had begun to return to the place they believed to be a sanctuary of sorts. Classes were held once more, and no one spoke about the heavy air that seemed to wrap itself around Charles. Everyone was determined to take up the mantle of normalcy, even if that meant ignoring all which had happened. He hadn't seen Erik since his return either, but there had been a whisper...the barest hints that he intended to see the promise of the Brotherhood carried out as government facilities around the country turned to ashes.

He heard their unfamiliar thoughts the moment their tinted black trucks plowed their way onto his property. He stopped his lecture mid-sentence, and the horror on his face was great enough to cause his students to stand abruptly to their feet, hands curled in preparation for a fight. Whether or not they were soldiers didn't matter anymore; their home would not be taken from them so soon after getting it back. 

His breathing became shallow, and he couldn't seem to move his body. When the girls and boys rushed to the window to search for the source of their sudden fear, he forced himself to his feet, motions jerky and harsh. His life was a falling deck of cards, but he would not take any others with him as he fell. 

"Get away from the window," he hissed, and with an almost painful edge, he used his harried power to walk them several feet back without any regards to whether or not they would have followed the order on their own. They blinked in concern at their limbs, but their concern quickly evaporated when the sound of shattering glass broke through the still of the air. " _Get to the bunker._ " 

A blue blur darted past Charles as the beast inside of Hank finally managed to break free of its cage. After the youngest of the children were shooed to safety, Charles could finally reach out his thoughts, cringing as his mind touched brains that were utterly foreign and yet so intimately familiar. These were the very brains that had probed so far into his own. 

" _It's admirable that you think you can still win,_ " they had warned him all those months ago. " _But in the end, those who are willing to do whatever it takes for progress will win above those who draw a line for themselves._ "

Perhaps they were right, and perhaps for that very reason, it was with relief that he caught sight of brilliant red skin and the whiff of danger that accompanied the Brotherhood's teleporter. Raven disentangled herself from his embrace and, without a glance towards Charles, darted forward to join the small fight that had broken out. With another _pop_ the mutant was gone, but he quickly reappeared -- this time with Erik in tow.

"They learned this time." His voice sounded slow and deliberate, as if he was not yet sure what needed to be done. "They brought plastic guns. Lucky for you, Charles, plastic cars have yet to be invented." 

Endless questions rose in Charles's mind, perhaps the greatest among them being _how_? How did Erik always know when to show up? The man followed out the door with little more than a lingering look at the telepath, but by the expression on his face -- the hungry look of _finally_ \-- he had been expecting such an attack all along. 

Unwilling to sit aside as he had the last time he faced the organization, he followed Magneto, walking as if he was still trapped in slumber. 

"Erik," he called softly. He was one of the few unique individuals who could see past the shell of metal Erik wrapped himself in, but more importantly, he liked to believe that he was one of the unique individuals who could coax him out of its safety. "Protection comes before vengeance. Help me; help my students." Gently, he placed his hand on the man's shoulder, turning him around in place. If Erik appeared cool and collected from afar, from this close, Charles could see nothing but the wildfire of hatred flaming in his eyes. It caused him to swallow the lump in his throat, forcing out the one word he rarely used when it came to the mutant. " _Please._ "

How many times had it come to this -- Charles begging Erik to show him his belief in the man was not folly, and Erik hesitating enough to allow that belief to live onward? How many times had he stood opposite the man he loved, unable to bring the same swift justice he delivered to the rest of the Brotherhood? How many times would Charles allow Erik to get away? They named him a monster, but could a monster truly exist if someone loved it -- if it loved in return? 

For once, however, Erik rose to meet Charles. 

Instead of turning the metallic instruments around him into weapons, he rose the vehicles steadily in the air, including some from Charles's own collection. With a grinding shriek and the smell of iron and gas heavy in the air, he pulled the cars and trucks apart with a lazy movement. The opposition did not wait to see what he would do; they began to shoot a blaze of bullets at him, missing only as Raven and Hank made slow work of disarming them. 

It appeared as if they didn't care about other mutants. Charles's blood felt like ice creeping through his veins. 

_You're special_ , they had told him, a loving note entering the scientist's voice. _You see beyond the world._

It was imperative they never discover Jean's power; it was imperative they never looked closer at the students now hidden beneath concrete and steel. If they believed Charles could unlock the world, there was no telling what they would believe Jean could unlock. The only thing keeping him from whisking them all away with the help of Erik's teleporter friend was what Erik was doing.

Bullets ricocheted off the reshaped flatness of the metal he had pulled from the vehicles, but he ignored them utterly. His attention was solely focused on the task at hand, and as he began to position the metal over the windows of the mansion, Charles could finally begin to see what that task was. 

"You're creating a shield," he said, awe plain in his voice.

"You said please," Erik returned, amusement in his own. "Tell Mystique and Hank to return inside. We need a better plan than a straight attack." 

**W e ' r e a t w a r .**

Every mind had a unique flow to it, and they connected to him through dozens of strings. All he had to do to utilize his mutation was pluck on the right string. Thoughts were a code few people could read, but it was a second language to Charles. For Raven, his mind naturally sought her own, and while he made her a promise long ago to never delve into her thoughts, it didn't mean that he couldn't find comfort in her brilliant pull.

_"Raven, come home..."_  
_"Fuck you, Charles."_  
_"Language, please."_  
_"...You're such an old man. Fine. Give me thirty seconds."_

Allowing himself a small smile of victory, he sought out the anxious flow of Hank's thoughts -- only to be met by a numb static.

"Oh no." He ran forward, grabbing hold of Erik's arm to stop him from finishing his job of securing the mansion. "They have Hank." 

Raven leaped through the last open window, and Erik slammed the final metallic sheet over it, trapping them all inside in what felt very much like a tomb. The silence was overwhelming, but it in no way brought comfort. Metal would not last forever, and Charles could feel the organization beginning to regroup. 

Erik flashed him a pitying look. "Then I hope they kill him quickly." 

Charles knew they would not.

They didn't want Hank, after all. _They wanted him._ The realization of those three little words would seal his fate as much as any three little words could. From the buzz of thoughts in the outside world, he gathered they had less than four hours. 

That was plenty of time to say goodbye.


	7. a whispered goodbye may as well be a confession

Raven continued to pace back and forth, gaze flickering toward Charles as if she could sense what it was he meant to do. His own features remained impassive, carved out of the stone every educator seemed to master at some point. It was one that allowed him to miss the faint remains of tears on her lashes and conceal the shattering remnants of his own heart.

"I'm glad you came," he offered into the silence. The others had migrated from the room per his request, but they weren't any concern of his right now. Each would get their turn, whether they recognized it for the goodbye it was or not. "I only wish it could have been under better circumstances. You're my family, Raven, and I have only -- " 

"Stop." 

_Don't comfort me. Don't do this. I know you, Charles. I was there at the beginning, and I always imagined I'd be there at the end, but this? This is stupid._

_We have a bigger war to fight._

Her thoughts rolled over him like waves, and it was the first time she had allowed such a thing since they were little more than children. They both recognized this fear: it was the same one that crowded them in their younger days when someone neared the truth of their mutations. It was a threat that their bubble of family would be punctured, but it already had been, long ago now.

He merely sat on the edges of the couch, waving for her to sit beside him. She hesitated a moment before complying, and the minute she did, he wrapped his arms around her as she curled into his side, same as they had done countless times previous. The past years didn't matter in that moment; they were merely brother and sister once more.

"Can you read one of your papers to me, Charles? You know how it puts me right to sleep," she mumbled softly, but he could sense the smile tugging at her lips.

"For you, I would read the entire dictionary." 

 

With Raven asleep and a false promise he would be there when she woke up, he crept out of the room to meet with those who had been in his care for longer than he cared to recall. How many promises was he willing to break to keep them all safe -- promises that everything would be alright? He hesitated at the foot of the stairs leading to the entrance of the basement where his students now waited with held breaths, and he couldn't seem to force himself to move any further. Instead, he pulled out a pen and paper, writing his thoughts down in looping, shaking handwriting.

> If this letter has been delivered, it means you have lost your headmaster. I want to apologize. I fully intended to see you all graduate, but circumstances have intervened. I consider you each my family, which is why I write this letter now. Few people get the chance to say goodbye, and so I take my chance while I still possess it. I hope you forgive an old man’s wish to have you lot out of harm's way; I could not stand it, so instead of pulling you aside one by one, I have put what I could not say into this letter, knowing by the time you read this, the exchange will have been made.
>
>> Scott,
>> 
>> Do not allow fear to be your guide. I realize how terrified you are, but you are no longer the scared boy I first met. You have much to offer the world and so much left to see. You know right from wrong, and while I have asked a lot of you, I ask more of you still. Guide them. Guide the younger students; show them their only limitations are those they put on themselves. Be what I once was. I know you are more than capable – you have proven this time and time again – and no matter the path you choose, whether to pursue a career all your own or take your place as an X-Men, I want you to remember that I and the friends you have made are proud of you.
>> 
>> Jean,
>> 
>> You have been in my life since you were a small girl. You were lost, frightened, and searching for home. I hope you found that here, and I hope with my passing, you do not lose it. I do not promise it will get easier, but I offer you a different promise instead: I promise the family you have made here will never fully leave you. We are present in your memories, your laughter, your tears, and your actions. Continue smiling, Jean, for while you may be able to move objects with a mere thought, that is your true gift. 
> 
> And to the rest of my students:
> 
> During a time such as this, it is easy to give into the hate, but I ask you to do the hard thing – to cling to the love, to hope with every fiber of your being. There will come a time when mutants and humans coexist, and it will not happen by one group overpowering the other. It will start by us showing them the way, as I have attempted to show each of you. Take what I have taught you into the world, and transform the hatred others fear into acceptance as well.
> 
> I never said it would be easy, did I? 
> 
> If ever you feel lonely, remember that your family surrounds you now. Remember that you can stand together and be far stronger than any one is apart. Remember, I beg of you, that unity is our greatest attribute. If you do, I promise the world will transform before your very eyes.
> 
> -Charles Xavier  
>  -Professor X  
>  -Whatever other nicknames you may have come up for me in my time here

  
With the note securely in place on the top of the counter, Charles made his way to the front of the entrance where he knew Magneto was waiting to strike.

"Erik." His voice broke on that one syllable, carrying the weight of a thousand years with it -- a thousand lifetimes, each filled with a thousand heartbreaks. Since the time he could hear the gentle thoughts of others, whispering to him in a cacophony of voices, he prided himself on his ability to form words that forged those voices into something better. How terrible words were, and yet, he had always believed they were the most powerful of things.

Yet words failed him now. 

How many times could he form _I love you_ 's? How many different ways were there to say _I'm sorry_? Each had been done throughout the history of their species, and Charles did not want this moment to be lost among that history. 

He had known his goodbye to Erik would be the hardest he would make. He had already said goodbye to the rest at various points in his life, but as greedy as a king holding onto his treasures, he held onto Erik's goodbye throughout the years. Even in the darkness of his cell, a small part of him believed that so long as he held that hope, he would hold onto a part of himself. 

**_(_** Perhaps he had  
not been  
u n m a d e  
after all. **_)_**  
  
"Charles."

A statement. A fear. A _hope_. 

Less than a breath separated them, and so much vibrated in that breath -- different paths, different choices, different worlds -- that it was shocking to realize nothing was being spoken aloud. As slowly as if he was exhaling it all away, he leaned forward and brushed his lips against the other man's. 

As with life, Erik was not satisfied with simple softness. His hands gripped onto the collar of Charles's shirt, pulling him forward once more and fervently returning the kiss that had been stolen from him. It left Charles dizzy, for in all the scenarios plotted out in his head, the one where Erik was as eager for him as he was for Erik had been too far fetched to even dream of. 

Even in the man's passion, there was a barely concealed pain. Thoughts mingled together until they swallowed them both. Perhaps Charles had been wrong, after all: he was not a planet locked in the other man's orbit. They were each brilliant stars, circling around each other in a never ending dance. 

_You make me s t r o n g e r than I could ever be alone._

Burning emotions crashed against him, threatening to sweep him away. His hand crept beneath Erik's shirt, feeling the man who was still not close enough. An unspoken truth lay over them -- this would be their last day together -- and drove their fervor. Erik tugged him forward by the loop of his belt, and _oh god, love was the game for children, was it not_? 

_Be selfish, Charles.  
Please._

Erik left a trail of hasty kisses along his neck, as if he could neither comprehend that Charles existed in his arms nor that Charles was eager to return the favor. How easy it would be to get lost in the man's touch! 

"Goodbye, Erik," he murmured instead, and with a prodding thought, Erik slumped against him into a forced sleep. _Another promise broken._ "I'm sorry." Charles did not hide the tears as he moved him to the ground. With a gentle peck on the forehead, the telepath was gone into the night.

 

A scientist and two armed guards greeted his arrival. Hank lay handcuffed behind them, unconscious but unharmed. Before he had time to say a word, the scientist was slipping a needle into his arm and injecting him with

**s o m e t h i n g** .

Through his quickly fading vision, he saw them remove the handcuffs from Hank and step over him, uncaring to the beast they had unleashed. _At least they kept their end of the agreement_ , Charles thought. From across the world, he could hear Erik's response: _Ever the martyr, my old friend._


	8. entropy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh man, so it's been???? a thousand years???????? so this is kind of a wee chapter for me to get back in the swing of things. oops.....

In certain situations, it was selfish to live. When it came to the death of the one so that the many could live, it would be nothing less than cruelty to continue breathing, each inhale filling with air that was stolen from others. In other, more rare situations, it was selfish to _die_. If the one had the ability to save the many, would it be selfish of them to allow another to die in their stead? Both arguments sat at the root of philosophy, and Charles, with all the tendencies of a doctor, was usually the first to smile in amusement at such philosophies. 

The only philosophy he had ever entertained was Descartes: “Cogito, ergo sum.”  
I think, therefore I am.

It was _ironic_ , he had always believed, that a telepath should hold such a philosophy -- a private joke that he held with himself. However, the phrase was the first out of his mouth, hours after reawakening in the cold bed of a hospital room. He had spent his time simply observing, attempting to remain calm even as the rate of his heart jumped haphazardly. The sterile white walls of the room were creeping inward, and he needed to say _something_ to pause their advance.

The only other individual in the room was a young scientist with an ID that read Dr. MacTaggert. She had been ignoring Charles the entire time he lay and stared, but she was one he didn’t recognize. Her thoughts fizzled and sputtered, as if someone had put a wall between them. It made him feel queasy, but if queasiness was the worst he had to deal with, he would gladly accept such a fate. 

“And what are you, Mr. Xavier?” 

“ -- Professor,” he corrected. The binds on his wrists and ankles felt as if they tightened in response to his voice. Something was wrong; something had changed since the last time these people had torn into him. He pressed against his restraints, both physical and mental. “Professor Xavier.” 

She let out a small sigh, scrawling words he could not see onto a clipboard. 

Another hour passed in silence. 

It became something of a maddening routine. She scribbled away, he stared, and they sat, constantly in silence. No one else came, and Charles could no longer decipher the time of day. There was only **silence** , pounding onto the walls and throttling every other thing in the room. 

Another hour crept by.

“They have the information they want, don’t they?” He finally spoke up. It was the only thing that completed the picture they were trying so hard to obscure. If they had the information, _whatever_ information that may be, they would not need to throw him into his cell, shoving needles beneath his skin with those false smiles and promises of a painless procedure… They could simply kill him, and he would slip into peace without a fight.

Her gaze was sharp and reprimanding, but unlike the others who had once come for him, there was nothing cold in it. “They told me three things before I agreed to participate in the research: you’re a dangerous man, _Professor_ , your powers have been subdued, and you’re the link I’ve been looking for for damn near a decade. I’m a geneticist, not an interrogator.”

“Is it usually the job of a geneticist to torture?” 

She didn’t answer, but he had not expected her to.

It was less time before they spoke again, and it was she who began, as Charles’s mind drifted to the world outside. He had forgotten the scent of captivity -- how it smelled jagged and false, like a dentist’s office in the instant before being called in for an appointment. It left the taste of longing on his tongue, and his thoughts turned to the school he had left behind. It was a wholly dangerous train of thought. She pulled him for such a path, and the ghost of gratitude trickled through him.

“I think, therefore I am.” Fear had managed to find a home in her words. “They want to find a way to do what you do, Professor -- and I believe I just have. So if those who think _are_ , then what about those who tell them what to think?”

“I’ve never been one for philosophy.” His face paled, and the machine hooked up to his heart began to beep in panic, betraying him. Whatever coolness he attempted to hold in his voice evaporated, and the edges of _begging_ entered instead. _What had he done?_ “You must listen to me, Dr. MacTaggert. I am a mutant, but that does not make me inherently dangerous. We all carry the capabilities of evil within us, but I have yet to succumb to it. I do not know what they’ve told you; I can guarantee whatever they told you I’ve done is nothing compared to what they will do with such knowledge.”

“I wanted to work at _Oxford_. They told me this research is going to get me published, plain and simple. But _this_? This is out of my jurisdiction…” 

She stood to leave, and his mind strained against whatever they had done to him, pushing, pushing, _pushing_. “ _Stop_.” Her footsteps paused, and her mind sharpened in its clarity. Uncertainty, fear, disgust, anger -- emotions pounded in her, slipping between bright and dull. He could hardly lift his head to see, but he tried all the same. “You have to help me. _Please_.” 

Her footsteps turned, approaching his bedside. Whether it was him guiding her or her choosing for herself did not matter. She loosened his binds, and that dangerous blossom of hope spread in his chest. There was a **chance** , and a chance could be as golden as the nectar of the gods if the only thing one had been exposed to prior was a world of grey. 

“We’ll never make it out the door, Charles.”

"We must try."

For the sake of a world he wasn't quite ready to leave.


	9. of my darling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay listen........almost one year later.....updating this......... i haven't written them or this story in so long so if this doesn't make sense, sorry???????????? i just didn't want to leave you babs Hanging. good luck

They knew it would be foolish to put metal handcuffs on Erik Lehnsherr; they knew it would be more foolish to bring him into their base -- a base reinforced with metal beams, metal equipment, metal, metal, _ metal _ . They knew it was foolish, but they could not resist. If Charles was a prize for minds, Erik was a prize for brute force. 

 

He was pumped full of drugs before the van neared the headquarters, but true to his word, he did not fight back. For as suspicious as they were of the act, they were far too greedy to tear back his skin and see what control he had on the iron in his own blood. They wheeled him in, the commander shouting orders to prepare a temporary cell **_(_** one made out of **plastic** **_)_** for their new guest. _He wouldn’t be staying with us long_ , the whispers traveled. _He’ll be dead by morning_. 

 

An hour after they brought him in, an alarm sounded. The sound echoed down the hallways, and people poured out of their work stations, some readied to fight while others readied to flee. All turned their gaze toward the mutant they had just brought in, for what else could it be? They expected the iron in the walls to quake; they expected to be buried alive. 

 

To their surprise, the metal remained untouched. 

 

Across the laboratories, Charles Xavier and Dr. MacTaggert hid in one of the storage rooms. It was for them the alarm sounded for, as unexpectedly as the new arrival had been. The doctor had an arm around his waist, supporting most of his weight. Even with adrenaline flooding him, he was weak, and the voices of others fizzled pathetically in his mind. Unwilling to test how strong his mental capacities were in such a state, they hid, breaths coming out in short puffs every time one neared the room. 

 

“They’ll lock up the garage soon,” she began, repeating the words for the dozenth time. Whether she was trying to convince herself or him of the plan, he could not be certain. “Once we get there, the rest will be easy. It’s just the getting there that will be a bit  _ difficult _ . The guards are now on alert, and they’re way more willing to shoot first and ask questions later, if you catch my meaning. God, this is crazy. What the hell are we doing, Charles?”

 

He closed his eyes, trying to map out the layout of the building through the eyes of those who traveled through it. The garage was close but not nearly close enough. 

 

_ That metal freak _ .

 

The thought caught Charles off guard, and a gasp left his lips that caused Dr. MacTaggert to jump beside him. She slapped his arm, motioning for him to  _ be quiet _ , but how could he be silent when his old friend was doomed to die in a cold room? He had always imagined they would grow old, with only stories and blood to bind them together, and yet, he could feel the man’s death hanging heavy in the air.

 

He finally decided, although it felt more like  _ acceptance _ ; after all, his decision had been made for him long ago. 

 

“Stay here, doctor. There’s someone who needs my help.” 

 

She gripped onto his arm, her fingers leaving bruises along his skin. God, she was scared -- as frightened as one of his students when they first unleashed their power -- but there was no reassurances he could offer her. His thoughts were consumed with another. “You’re not strong enough,” she pleaded.

 

“I must try.”

 

Seconds later, he was stepping into the hallway, each step weighed carefully as he moved along. If anyone stumbled into the corridor, he sent them to sleep, leaving behind a trail of still-alive bodies. He could still hear Erik’s accusation echo in his head:  _ Are you so weak that you cannot fight with one who threatens not only you, but the lives of your students?  _ That had never been his way; his way was the balance between rage and serenity, and it was a balance he fought desperately to hold onto as he neared Erik’s holding cell. 

 

Rage was an emotion he so rarely experienced, but it had begun to twist beneath his skin as if it were some sort of sickness with no other cure outside of death. 

 

When he found Erik, it threatened to spill over entirely. 

 

They had begun the experimental process, tearing into his skin and peeling back his skull. His eyes were held wide open, and the world around him quaked slightly -- there was little metal to do anything beyond that. Certainly, he had a plan! Certainly, he had not come here to beg for Death. If there was one thing Charles understood about the mutant, it was that he would not give his life for anything less than the world itself. Certainly, certainly, certainly.

 

The very iron in Charles’s blood reacted. He nearly collapsed on the medical bed, and he clawed at the binds holding Erik down.  _ No, this was not right. _ His nails were left bloody from the force he tore at the restraints, and the red smeared against the wires he pulled out of his old friend.  _ Fool, fool, fool  _ \-- a chorus sounded. The part of the martyr did not look well on the other, and he was about to say just as much when he felt another enter. 

 

“What are you doing?” A man’s voice sounded, the gruff tone causing panic. The other man was a guard at least twice Charles’s size with a gun in one hand and a taser in the other. He meant to kill one and take the other alive, Charles could see it unfold in his mind. Torment. Pain. The feel of insanity, breathing down his neck. When Charles tried to slip him into unconsciousness, the man merely grinned and tapped a metallic circlet on his brow. “We’re gettin’ the rest of the guards with these too. You can’t touch us, telepath.” 

 

If it was Charles alone, perhaps he would hold up his hands in surrender, but beneath his own fear and the guard’s own determination, he could sense another. 

 

Erik stirred, and Charles knew what he had to do. Oh god, he knew it -- should have known it. He was a telepath, even as the guard tossed the word out like an insult. He was more intimate with human nature than all the world, and he knew what men were driven to in these situations. Why did he think he would be any different? 

 

“Forgive me,” he whispered to the guard. 

 

The circlet was not perfect; it was merely based on perfection, based on Magneto’s helmet. He charged the guard, all the while focusing enough on the man to keep him paused -- just for a moment, just so that Charles might reach the gun. All it would take was overtaking the man for a second, grasping the gun in his hand, and pulling the trigger. Surely, it would be painless. Surely, he might not even day. Was it truly that bad of a bargain? But to hurt the guard, truly hurt the guard -- there was a part of Charles that could not deny such an urge. 

 

The guard’s eyes widened, and he trembled, the edges of Charles’s control already slipping. His gun quivered, but in the span of a second, he was turning it around.  **_Bang_ ** , it rang out. Red on the wall. The man fell. Blood pooled. He sputtered a few words. Unintelligible. Charles paused, eyes wide. It was not Charles that had pulled the trigger, was it? No, no… 

 

“Charles, stand behind me. You won’t kill them; I will. We know which one is necessary now,” Erik spoke from behind him, slipping off the bed. He gritted his teeth but attempted to ignore the pain Charles so vividly felt. “Homo sapiens and their guns…” The weapon flew from the ground to his hand with ease. 

 

“You idiot,” Charles could only hiss.

 

Ten seconds passed before the next line of guards arrived, and Erik stood straighter at their arrival. With the regality of a king, he shot off his gun four times, each bullet hitting their targets.

 

“Erik,  _ no _ \-- ” 

 

Dr. MacTaggert entered. Her thoughts were a jumble Charles did not understand at first, but behind them all, there was a deep sense of worry and shame. If she could find Charles, perhaps she could leave this facility behind. She had to find him, help him… 

 

She turned the corner. 

 

Erik cocked the gun.

 

“Erik -- ” He tried to warn the man. Being a telepath was a gift, he would preach, but it came with damnation: to witness the end and not being able to do a damn thing to stop it. It was the power and curse of a god, trapped in the mortal restraints of a man.

 

“Charles! We don’t have time -- ”  

 

Dr. MacTaggert entered.

 

Erik shot. 

 

Charles did not think; he dove to knock her out of the way, and the bullet pierced his back. He felt it echo in his heart.  _ Why did you come, Erik? Was it to hurt me? Was it to save me? We were only meant to destroy one another, my dear friend… _ He tried to catch himself as he fell, but his body did not work. There was only the sharp smell of blood as the crimson color merged with the guards Erik had killed -- the guards he had let Erik kill.  _ Perhaps this was his own fault… _

 

“Charles!” Two voices cried for him. 

 

“I have a way out…” Dr. MacTaggert stuttered. There was a hand on his arm, he believed. Was it friend or foe? “We can get him help…” 

 

The gun cocked again, and she fell silent. 

 

_ Erik,  _ Charles reached into the man’s mind.  _ Listen to her. _

  
And then unconsciousness found him once more. 


End file.
